


Yeah, Still Good

by unbound_volumes



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Lilo & Stitch Au, Lilo Ian, M/M, Stitch Mickey
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-05-11 15:07:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5631058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unbound_volumes/pseuds/unbound_volumes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Experiment 625 knows he's a monster, built to destroy. He could never belong - doesn't <i>want</i> to belong. </p>
<p>Until a persistent human makes him think that just maybe he'd like to try.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Well, Mickey is an alien, so do I really need to say that this isn't exactly canon compliant? While some situations are definitely inspired by certain Shameless scenes from early seasons, don't try to make sense of the timeline; it won't match up.
> 
> I blame this entirely on the_rat_wins' argument that [season 01 Mickey is actually Stitch](http://the-rat-wins.tumblr.com/post/131901485942/youre-built-to-destroy-you-could-never-belong).

 

 

The first word Experiment 625 speaks in his human form is “fuck.”

Or rather, it’s the first word he speaks in his human form to another, _actual_ human.

Shortly before that, he was still learning the language. He spent his first few days on Earth holed up in some abandoned building, jimmying the transmitter salvaged from his ship into picking up area television broadcast frequencies. For two days, 625 watched the transmitter non-stop, silently mouthing the foreign syllables of the species as he flipped from one fuzzy show to the next. He knew nearly nothing about this planet he had crashed on, save a few salient facts: its inhabitants called it “Earth”; its atmosphere was similar enough to the one he’d left behind that breathing it hadn’t immediately liquified his internal organs; and no one on _this_ planet had declared his intent to eliminate 625 just for being. As far as he was concerned, that made Earth infinitely better than the planet he fled.

It was his fear of being dragged back to said planet that fueled his early, miserable days hunched over the the makeshift television in intensive cram sessions. A lot had been said about 625 at his creator’s trial: he was violent, he was a living weapon, he was driven by the need to destroy. No one had mentioned his intellect, but 625 was more than just cognizant; he was highly intelligent. He was more than smart enough to know that his survival depended on passing as human. So he altered his form, listened to the Earth programming, and when hunger got the best of him, set out to see just how well his disguise held up.

As it turned out, his physical disguise was just fine.  It was his actions that almost gave him away.

625 waited until night to seek out a food source, figuring it would be safer to have fewer people around to witness his debut as a human. Within a few blocks he had found a run-down Qwik Stop. The harsh dinging of an electronic bell announced his entrance, and he startled, head whipping around to identify the source of the unexpected noise. The motion caused the bored-looking youth with a wispy beard and unkempt ponytail to glance up from the magazine opened across the counter. 625 could feel his hackles rising as the kid (“Jake”, according to the the crooked badge pinned to his vest) took a long look at him. Just as 625 was rapidly cataloging all the ways he could immobilize this threat before he blew 625’s cover, the threat snorted disdainfully and shook his head. “You lost, Spaceman?” And just when 625 decided that the best option was to go for the eyes - humans were strangely vulnerable there - Jake turned his attention back to his magazine. “Fuckin’ late-night weirdos.”

625 exhaled harshly. He’d almost jumped the gun, and he couldn’t afford to draw any attention to himself. He had to focus, get his food, and go. And he had to do it without drawing attention to himself, without giving in to it.  Without giving in to the ever present itch beneath his skin, telling him to take out his frustration - with this “Jake,” with the bell, at being stranded on this unknown planet and fleeing for his life - on everything in his path. He couldn’t afford to give in to the desire to grab the magazine on the counter and tear it in half, before slamming the kid’s head to the counter. To knock down all the shelves with their shiny, crinkly packets of food. To rip the soda fountain from the wall, to revel in the way the hoses would leak heavy syrup over the filthy floor. Just get the food.

Moving into the aisles, 625 allowed himself to open the first food package he touched: Hostess Donettes. Powdered sugar poofed from the cellophane, sprinkling the front of dark shirt. He removed a solitary ring, raised his eyebrow at the offending object, sniffed it. With a shrug, 625 tore off half with his teeth, then froze. It was unlike any rations he’d been offered in the lab, and it was _amazing_. He crammed the other half in his mouth, quickly following it with the second, third, fourth, crumbs and sugar flying.

“Hey, Spaceman - you know you’re paying for that, right?”

625 was too distracted to pay the clerk any mind. A second package opened, donuts shoved in faster than he could chew. He grabbed more of the plastic sleeves, crushing them to his chest.

What had started as a search for sustenance had grown into something more. What else was there? What flavors had he been denied? 625 started grabbing items with abandon. Cocoa Crispies. Pop Tarts. Individual bags of trail mix. He was quickly amassing more than he could carry back to his hideout. Looking around, 625 saw a half-emptied box of bananas in the store’s miniscule produce section, tipped the fruit out, and emptied his arms into it. Now he could take so much more: bright bags marked “Lays”, “Doritos”, and “Fritos”, and a rainbow of cardboard cylinders filled with something called “Pringles”. He used his arm to swipe them off the shelf, catching some in the box, ignoring those that crashed to the floor. He looked to the shelf behind him, filled with rows of small, rectangular packaging. 3 Musketeers. Milky Way. Kit Kat. Snickers.

“What the fuck, man?” Jake was now standing at the end of the aisle, staring at the wreckage around 625’s feet. “You can’t just trash the place and take that shit. Are you fucking mental?”

625 paused. _Fuck. Fucking._ For all the Earth shows he’d been studying, this word was new. Judging from the Jake’s expression and and the tone in his voice, 625 had a good idea of what it meant - and he was pretty sure he liked it. _Fuck. Fucking._ He looked the Snickers he’d been holding before he’d been interrupted, and ripped into the wrapper with his teeth.  

“Jesus fuck, are you even listening to me, you dumb shit?”

625 spat out the wrapper, took a huge bite of the candy. It was even better than the donettes. He felt a huge smile overtaking his face, and finally looked at the clerk. Jake stammered a bit, bravado leaving him in the face of 626’s maniacal smile. “Just…drop your shit and leave man, before I call the fucking cops.”

Again: _Fucking._

625 smiled even wider, chocolate still smeared across his teeth. “Fuck.”

It was the first word he’d said beyond his muttered practice sessions in the wreckage. He liked how it sounded coming out of his mouth. “FUCK.”

“What?” Now Jake sounded more than a little unnerved.

625 made a little threatening lunge forward, and laughed when the kid actually took a step back. “I said, fuck off, you stupid fuck.”  Another little lunge forward.

“Fuck this shit. I don’t get paid enough to die for some Snickers,” Jake muttered, finally stepping completely to the side.

625 grabbed the open box of Snickers, dropped it in with his other goods, brushed past the kid on his way to the exit. “It was a fucking pleasure doing business with you.” And because he just couldn’t help himself, didn’t see a need to fight it any longer, he pushed over a display stand of canned soup before kicking open the door. When it closed behind him, it cut off the sound of the rolling tins and Jake’s frustrated swearing. 625 held his box and stolen goods under his arm and smiled up at the stars. Yeah, he could do this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, I haven't seen season 6. I have no desire to. It will have no impact on this story. From what I've gathered, it's character assassination and story-line hell. I love Mickey. I love Ian. And I'll continue to love them in the all the wonderful fic being produced by this wonderful community. Hugs, y'all. (And that's all I'll say about that.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for the kind reception to the prologue. I never intended to be away so long.

The first time 625 saw Ian Gallagher, he didn’t actually see much of him at all: a glimpse of a face wide-eyed with panic, the back of his head as he fled his pursuers. The kid ran rabbit-fast to the back of the store, sneaking out some rear exit before 625 could deliver the promised ass-kicking. 

Gallagher had been wise to run. By then, it was “Mickey Milkovich” who had threatened the kid. 625 had a name of his own devising, a reputation that made people think twice before questioning him too closely, and the start of something like a life. 

Within a month of crashing on Earth, 625 had found a place to stay. He’d earned the favor of some hapless criminals when he’d helped throw the cops off their trail. The Milkovich brothers - Tony, Colin, and Iggy - were lucky if they shared one brain between the three of them. What they did share was a house. The three young men, along with their younger sister, Mandy, stayed in their childhood home. Their mom was gone, and their father (and de facto leader) rested his head in a federal penitentiary up north - and would for the rest of his days, after shooting an undercover cop in a drug bust gone sour. Mickey needed a habitat with heat and water, and judging from their naked admiration at Mickey’s fast talking with the cops, the Milkoviches needed someone to follow. A few more “chance” encounters ingratiated 625 with the three. From there, it was easy to gradually move from crashing at their place for a night to staying permanently. Any questions about his past were quickly waved away by hinting that he was on the lam, and hey, since he was an honorary Milkovich, why didn’t he just go by Milkovich? The clan on Trumbull Street gained a new “cousin”, and Mickey got an identity.

The new identity as a Milkovich was the driving force behind the latest strike. Mandy Milkovich said that Ian Gallagher molested her, so Ian Gallagher would take a beating. Lesson learned, another notch in the belt of Mickey’s reputation. Win-win. And hell, getting to break shit in the process? Win-win-win. Mickey didn’t have to fake his maniacal grin as he burst in through the door of the Kash and Grab.

“Iiiiiian Gallagher!”

And that brought him to the first meeting, the non-meeting that only really registered as a flash of disappointment that his prey had gotten away. But then Mandy changed her story a few days later, claimed that Ian was now her best friend and off limits or some other shit, and Mickey figured that would be the last he’d see the kid.

* * *

The second time Mickey saw Ian Gallagher was purely by chance.

By now, he had been on Earth for a few months, and while not completely at ease on this new world, he had fallen into something of a routine. Most days were spent on whatever petty crimes kept him in food and money and beer. Things were going better than he could have hoped for, considering he was an intergalactic fugitive stranded on an alien planet. It helped that these aliens were remarkably easy to intimidate. Mickey found there was a formula to getting what he wanted. So much of it was in the attitude: a cocky nonchalance, a refusal to even try to be stealthy. Being stealthy implies that you give a fuck about being caught. And while Mickey most certainly did give a fuck - having absolutely no record of his existence might raise a few red flags should he ever be hauled in by Earth authorities - it was easy enough to act as if he didn’t. He walked into a joint with the swagger of a human twice his size. He was louder than he needed to be, clomping with ill-fitting shoes on dirty linoleum, slamming cooler doors shut, loudly sifting through bags of junk food. He punctuated his presence with abrupt fits of swearing aimed at whatever twitchy fuck manned the register. Noise and the unpredictability made people nervous; Mickey was good at both. But most importantly? He never looked away first. Even the bravest of the humans would eventually back down when faced with his unwavering gaze.

Despite the attitude, Mickey knew better than to push his luck. He didn’t want some desperate store owner to bring the cops into it. He changed his routine, dropping in at various times of day, disrupting different shifts, using unpredictability to his advantage. He spread himself around, stealing from various stores in the area. He never ventured beyond the South Side; the greater wealth in other neighborhoods might mean better goods - but it also meant better means of protection. When he found a place that worked particularly well - one with especially timid employees or well-stocked shelves - he’d add it heavy into the rotation, but he had an innate sense of when he needed to back off for a time.

And that’s why he knew that his latest trip to the Kash and Grab was going to be his last.

It started promising enough. He’d flung open the door midday. A quick scan revealed that he was the only customer. Kash looked up from whatever calculations he was working on near the register, but quickly looked away when he found Mickey staring at him. Mickey snorted, amused. 

The walk had made his thirsty, so Mickey headed towards the coolers at the rear of the store. He grabbed a Gatorade for later and a Pepsi for now, making a point to turn to the counter as he popped the tab, the ensuing hiss of escaping gas obnoxiously loud in the quiet store. Sure enough, Kash dared another wary look at him. Mickey lifted the can in a jaunty salute before chugging it down, never once breaking eye contact. The man’s eyes skittered back to the pad in front of him, and stayed there, resolute, even as Mickey belched and tossed the half-empty can to the ground. 

He was filling an empty display box with Pop Tarts when he heard a door open somewhere in the back of the store. “Hey, Kash! You’re running low on two-percent - fuck! There’s pop or some shit all over the floor back here.”

Mickey turned to see none other than Ian “dead man” Gallagher lifting his foot from the floor with look of disgust. It took Mickey a second to place him as Mandy’s friend/near-punching bag; he had honestly not considered running into him again. He went back to contemplating the food in front of him while keeping an ear to the conversation.

“A customer dropped a can. I’ll clean it up in a moment.”

“What the fuck? It’s all over the freezer doors, too!” Gallagher sounded pissed.

“Don’t worry about it, Ian. I’ll get it.”

It was clear Kash wasn’t going to rat him out, let alone confront him. Mickey was golden. He turned from the confections, unable to resist rubbing it in a bit. “Ay! Where the fuck you keep the Hostess?” Kash sullenly pointed to a rack near the entrance. “Sweet. Must’ve missed ‘em.” Mickey sauntered past the counter, pausing at the doughnut display. “These fresh? I don’t want any stale shit.” He took a large bite from the first pastry he grabbed, purple jam spilling over his chin. Kash grimaced, repulsed, but it was the look on Gallagher’s face that almost made Mickey’s smile falter. He was staring straight at Mickey, chin jutting, resolute - and continued to stare, even as Mickey met his eyes. Mickey swallowed heavily, but was saved from having to look away first when Ian suddenly turned his furious gaze to Kash, leaving Mickey to continue on to the Hostess display, careful to look unhurried.

“This your ‘customer’, Kash? Mickey Milkovich?”

“Keep your voice down, Ian,” hissed the older man. “He’s still here.”

“Yeah, and the shit he got all over the floor is still there, too.”

A heavy sigh. “It’s just pop, Ian.”

“What about all that stuff in the box? He payin’ for that?”

Mickey strained his ears, not wanting to miss out on Kash’s reply. There wasn’t one. Yeah, he was definitely in the clear. He added a handful of packaged cupcakes to his haul and turned on his heel. “Gentleman!” he cheerfully taunted as he prepared to leave.

Kash’s fingers tightened a bit around his pencil, but beyond that he made no indication that he’d heard Mickey. But Gallagher? Gallagher stared at him again, frustration clear on his face. It couldn’t have been more than a few seconds, but it long enough that for Mickey to take in the narrowed eyes (And what the hell color were they? Did humans have a word for it?), the clench of his jaw, the unusual pigmentation patterns across his face. It was long enough for Mickey to turn away first, stiff-arming the door open and marching into the chilled air. He knew that if he looked back, he’d still see those eyes (Green? Blue? Seriously, what the fuck was up with that?!) fixed on him through the glass. Kash might be a pushover, but the Gallagher kid unnerved him. It would be a shame to lose such an easy shakedown so close to home, but he didn’t see any way around it: the Kash and Grab was off-limits, and Gallagher was to be avoided at all costs. 

* * *

The third time Mickey saw Ian Gallagher was the first time the kid spoke to him.

Gallagher had been on Mickey’s mind a lot since the stare-down at the store. Mickey figured it was only natural to focus on the person who had come closest to making you lose control of a situation.

So it was fairly easy for Mickey to justify to himself how he had ended up in the Kash and Grab four days after deciding not to chance another visit. After all, he was Experiment 625, _designed_ to break the rules. It’s who he was: risk, chaos, maximum destruction. The Kash and Grab was close, the owner clearly lacked balls, and Mickey wasn’t going to pussy out and avoid it because one befreckled Earth kid had the audacity to meet his eyes. If anything, it was all the more reason to return; it wouldn’t do any his reputation any good if people thought that Mickey Milkovich backed down from any fight.

(And if he happened to find himself looking for a certain redhead when he stomped in the door, well, he had to make a point, right?)

But Gallagher wasn’t there, or at least, he wasn’t on the floor. Whatever strange twinge of disappointment Mickey felt was quickly swallowed up in the joy of restoring the natural order. He pushed Kash to see how far he could push, boxing up his stolen goods directly in front of him, telling him he was out of Barbecue Pringles. Mickey was feeling so good, in fact, that when he glanced at the security mirror on his way out the door just in time to see Ian Gallagher emerging from the storeroom, he saw it as an opportunity. He had to show Gallagher that he was unaffected by whatever had happened the last time. (He had to show himself.)

He waited less than a minute before returning to the store with a cheeky, “Forgot the dip.” And if Gallagher was giving him the stinkeye, well, fuck him, because Mickey Milkovich didn’t give enough of a fuck to look his way. He strode from the store, firmly in control of this little scenario.

But then Gallagher strayed from the script _again_. He actually followed Mickey outside, and he addressed him directly. “Hey Mickey, why don’t you steal from a neighborhood you don’t live in? Have some civic pride, huh?”

For a split second, Mickey panicked. He wanted - needed - Gallagher to back off. He wanted him to keep the fuck out of his business. (He wanted to know why he wasn’t intimidated like the others.) But by the time Mickey turned back around, he had schooled his face into a bored expression. He sniffed indifferently, thoughtfully, then flung the dip at Gallagher as hard as he could. (He missed on purpose.)

“You got a problem? You know where to find me.”

It was a taunt. (An invitation?) He said it to keep Gallagher away. It would be insanely dangerous for 625 if Gallagher were to track him down. 

(He hoped he’d track him down.)


	3. Yeah, Still Good

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, isn't this embarrassing.
> 
> It'd been so long since I've been able to work on this story that I was trying to figure out what was more shameful: a short-ish update after all this time, or not updating at all. And then the person who inspired the entire Mickey-as-Stitch idea referenced it on Tumblr and I decided to take it as a sign. So if you were kind enough to give this another look after so many months, thank you, thank you, thank you. 
> 
> Next up: a POV switch.

The fourth time Mickey encountered Ian Gallagher wasn’t at the store - but it started at the store.

He had gone in to refill supplies; never take too much at once. Never give the employees cause to snap. And yeah, maybe he’d timed his visit for the hours that Ian seemed most likely to work. But Ian wasn’t intimidated by him like Kash or so many of the others, and there was truth to that whole “know your enemies” shit. Mickey could hardly be blamed for trying to figure the kid out; that was just self-preservation. It was all irrelevant, anyway, since since a quick glance around the store revealed only Kash, who was seated behind the register, looking more uncomfortable than usual. And it wasn’t just Kash. The entire “vibe” was off: something was setting Mickey on edge, and he’d learned to trust his instincts, fuck much. It’s what got him out of a death sentence on his planet, and it was what was keeping him alive on this strange blue dot. So what he hoped would be a little back and forth with the persistent kid was going to be a simple in-and-out instead. Whatever. 

As he started stuffing Hostess mini-pies in his pockets, he heard a tremulous voice. “You need to pay for those.”

Mickey snorted, not even sparing a glance at Kash. “Or what? You learned how to fight since the last time I was here? You some sort of fuckin’ Muslim ninja now?” He paused, groaning. “Shit. Why are you always out of the cupcakes? It’s not that hard, man. Just order more cupcakes and less of the coconut SnoBall shit. There’s always SnoBalls. That’s because no one likes fuckin’ SnoBalls.”

“I mean it, Mickey. Either pay for it, or put it back.”

Jesus. Mickey just wanted to finish this trip and leave, but Kash was insisting on some sort of tête-à-tête. He had to crack down on this, and hard. “You know what pal? Congratulations on your balls finally dropping enough to talk to me, but if you’re attached to them, you might want to back the fuck off, oka--” He had been turning around to face his antagonist when he stopped.

Kash was holding a gun.

Mickey stared at it, frozen. He knew what it was, what it it could do. It might not be as high tech or efficient as the weapons carried on his home world, but the end result would be the same, if a bit messier. And wouldn’t that just be a bitch: surviving a prison break, a massive manhunt, and a crash landing on a new world, only to be shot down by some pansy-ass mini-mart owner who just happened to be slightly more afraid of his wife than he was of Experiment 625.

Mickey swallowed hard. Tried to reclaim a bit of that bravado. “You serious right now? You going to take a shot at me over some snack cakes and canned tuna?”

The gun wobbled slightly as Kash’s hands shook. “Maybe. Maybe I’ll take a shot at you for stealing from my store, again and again. Or maybe you can just leave, and nobody gets hurt.”

And even though the fear was still there, it was quickly shrinking the the shadow of the rage and destructiveness Mickey could feel bubbling over. Did this asshole actually just say, “and nobody gets hurt”, like he was some badass cop on any one of the endless interchangeable syndicated police procedurals that Mickey had mainlined when learning the language? Like _Kash_ got to decide if anyone got hurt, like _he_ was charge of Mickey. Did this timid little man really think he could take on Experiment 625, an entity designed to be so utterly destructive that termination was deemed the only course of action?

Experiment 625 hadn’t surrendered in the face of a highly-armed, highly-trained intergalactic SWAT team; he sure as fuck wasn’t going to flinch just because this prick said “boo.”

He quirked his eyebrows. “Just leave, huh? What if I don’t want to leave?” He took a step closer. “What if I’m not done here, Kash? You talk a big talk. Think you can back it up? You ever shot anything before?” Kash tried to hide the subtle flinch, but Mickey saw it. He decided to press a little harder. “Shit, I bet you didn’t even think to take off the fucking safety before you decided to threaten me.” The second Kash’s eyes flicked to the gun, Mickey knew he had struck gold. Holy fuck, this dumbass honestly hadn’t thought to check the safety.

“Shouldn’t have a gun if you don’t know how to use it, buddy,” said Mickey, yanking the weapon from Kash’s grasp before the man had time to react. “Doin’ you a favor, here. These things are real dangerous in the wrong hands. Someone could get hurt.” He raised the weapon in a cocky salute. Kash’s face cycled through confusion, disbelief, horror, and settled on utter defeat. And that was it. One month in, and Kash had provided Mickey with an Earth weapon, and really, it was just too fucking easy.

Of course, it meant that he probably would have to stay away from the store. Wounded animals are the most dangerous; Mickey knew that. Hell, Mickey was living proof of that. But, whatever. It’s not like there weren’t a million other shitty convenience stores he could knock over. And yeah, maybe that meant he inadvertently screwed himself out of seeing the Gallagher kid again. Big fuckin’ deal. Mickey needed a weapon. He needed to be feared. And if that came at the expense of seeing Gallagher again? Well, then Mickey wouldn’t see Gallagher again. It was that simple.


End file.
